


Trichophilia

by CatherineTypes



Category: Black Sails
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-23
Updated: 2018-03-26
Packaged: 2019-04-07 03:42:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14072139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatherineTypes/pseuds/CatherineTypes
Summary: Thomas' musings on James' hair throughout the years.





	1. Chapter 1

Thomas could never say exactly what it was about James he noticed first; the rigidity to his beautiful voice, the determined set to those enchanting eyes, the purse of his lips that could be so easily kissed or the innumerable freckles that he so badly wanted to follow past the Lieutenant's coat collar to those sturdy shoulders...but he would always be certain that one of the features that struck him most, from the day they met, was James’ hair. Even crushed slightly by that enormous hat, James hair was beautiful, lovely and long and such a welcome bright colour in their bleak grey city. Thomas liked to think of himself as a man of considerable self restraint, given how often he wanted to scream and rage against his fellows, so determined in their ignorance, while he instead fought with his wits over weapons, but from that very first day he struggled to keep his composure while distantly wondering how those locks would feel in his hands.

*

As the time passed it became sweet torture knowing James. They’d talk, they’d plan, they’d argue, they’d laugh, and at the end of the night Thomas would feel as though his own desire was a demon clawing his insides out. He refused to be ashamed for what he felt - he had long since moved past that sort of thinking - but the Lieutenant, his beloved James...what Thomas felt for him was so special, their relationship so fragile. Any time he thought James might be similarly inclined towards him or that he should articulate his feelings, he had to swallow the overwhelming fear of ruining what lay between them, risking the plans they made as well as his own heart. Day after day after day, Thomas fell a little further in love, and agonised over James. More than once he found himself nodding along with what James was saying, muttering harmless phrases like “Of course.” and “Yes, quite”, as he caught himself in the midst of daydreaming about tugging loose the ribbon James always wore and sliding into his lap, kissing his frown away as Thomas twirled fingers through his hair.

*

Kissing James was absolute bliss.

It didn’t matter that his father had only been gone a matter of seconds. It didn’t matter that Miranda was still somewhere in the room, or that the servants were nearby, or that soon their guests would start arriving. These were all things Thomas recognised only distantly, in the back of his mind, smothered by the delighted knowledge that his mouth was on James’ and James was kissing him back. They parted for a moment, only a moment, to breathe and nuzzle their noses together slightly, Thomas’ hands still cupped around James’ jaw and James’ arms around Thomas’ waist, and then they were kissing again, simply but firmly, no room for either man to doubt the meaning behind it. There was no space to interpret this in a twisted way, not after what James had said and Thomas had done. James wasn’t using Thomas to climb socially. Thomas didn’t see James as an underling to be manipulated or played with. There was only genuine, ardent affection present as Thomas finally, finally, slid a hand into James’ hair and was thrilled to find it as lovely to the touch as he’d imagined.

*

The navy trained men to be early risers and James was no exception, Thomas knew, partly from what Miranda had told him and partly from his own experience; those mornings the Lieutenant had shown up on the doorstep ready to begin the day’s work while Thomas was still in his nightclothes. Thomas was surprised, therefore, to find himself the first one awake after the night they first shared a bed. He lay watching James sleep, that concentrated face for once at peace as he dreamt, limbs tucked up tight around himself but his hair all over the pillow, haloed out around his head like a deity in a masterpiece portrait. As he started to stir, blinking and scowling at first, then smiling almost timidly at Thomas when he realised where he was, Thomas brushed a strand of hair away from his eyes and leant in to kiss him, almost compelled to weep with joy as he came to the realisation that his heart was no longer his own. It was James’ completely, and as he voiced the thought James answered in turn that his own heart belonged to Thomas. 

*

“Three months.” Thomas repeated.  
“Just three months.”, answered James, but there was something of a wince to his tone, as though he was trying to soften the blow and they both knew he was failing miserably.

Thomas took a moment to think, staring at his knees through the blanket while he sat propped against the headboard, James sitting on the bed and their fingers intertwined. This position had grown so familiar between them he hated to think of being without it for three whole months, but ultimately he understood why James had to go.

“I shall miss you terribly”, he eventually said with a sad smile. “ Nobody argues with me quite like you do. Even Miranda can’t manage, bless her heart for trying.”

James smiled back at him, thought there was a similar melancholy to his gaze that tugged sharply on Thomas’ heartstrings. It seem to disappear momentarily, however, as they leaned in to kiss and on a whim Thomas gave James’ ponytail a short, sharp pull. It was even longer than when they had first met, the ends frayed and in need of a trim, but the very concept of scissors near James’ hair made Thomas shudder. He briefly wondered how different it could be after three months.

“Well,” said James with a groan, “it’s not as though I’m leaving today”.

Thomas grinned. He did so love how easily James’ attention could be diverted these days, coupled with how comfortable James had grown with voicing what he wanted, but there was no time to properly think of it as James pushed him back into the pillows.

The day James eventually did depart, Thomas found himself pacing the study they’d shared countless interactions in for a long time before his head cleared enough for him to notice one of the books on his desk that hadn’t been there before, its cover slightly raised from the pages inside. Opening the book he found that atop the title page lay a handkerchief, wrapped around a lock of unmistakable copper strands tied by a black ribbon.

*

Thomas did not consider himself by nature a violent man, but he could have choked Peter the day James returned. Miranda, at least, had only demanded James’ time briefly, and Thomas knew she was well aware of how important each man was to the other. Peter, on the other hand, seemed determined to be as obnoxious as possible that afternoon, so that it was early evening by the time he left. It was something of an open secret within their little group, the nature of James and Thomas’ relationship, but for some reason Peter loitered continually and with an overbearing presence, almost as though he was watching for every little twitch of Thomas’ hand towards James’, every moment James’ eyes lingered on Thomas’s mouth, until it became apparent that James was on the verge of some sort of emotional explosion and Miranda all but outright told Peter he had outstayed his welcome.

As Miranda, (“Bless her, bless her very presence”, thought Thomas) saw the Lord Ashe to the door he and James barely waited for the servants to leave before colliding together. In moments jackets were shucked to the floor and the two men were lying together in front of the hearth, James on top of Thomas and kissing him senseless as Thomas held him by the hips and rolled sensually against him. 

“My darling”, gasped James between kisses. “My angel. My Lord”.

In the firelight James glowed, a vision of heat and beauty. His skin, bronzed by the Bahamas, was wonderfully framed by his copper mane, the beard and moustache accentuating his proud and handsome face, though the sharpness of his features, made sharper still by the light, were somewhat countered by the tenderness in his eyes as he stared down at Thomas and the softness of his moan as Thomas ran his fingertips along his beloved’s scalp. Thomas felt as though he were being straddled by Apollo himself and vowed to himself that once they were in Nassau, nothing would be able to tear them apart.


	2. Chapter 2

When he’d been too weak to keep himself from fantasizing, dreaming of James returning to his arms, Thomas had imagined countless different scenarios. James breaking into the asylum and the two of them running off together was one of the earliest, and to him the most realistic. After Peter came to him, telling him of James and Miranda boarding a ship that had later been found wrecked, he tried to lock those dreams away but sometimes it was all that kept him going; through the unspeakable brutality of his caretakers in the asylum and overbearing apathy or outright disgust of the plantation overseers. He knew it impossible but just couldn’t dispose of the image entirely, his James sweeping in like an avenging angel and the two of them burning all in sight, heads held high and fingers entwined, side by side.

Not once did he imagine James being brought to him in chains. Nor him being bald.

Not that this was Thomas being superficial, no; this vision before him, so changed from his dreams, was how he verified reality for himself in a mere moment. James was standing there, looking absolutely wretched but for the hope in his eyes. James was scarred, and wrinkled, and slightly more robust in build than when they’d been separated all those years ago. James was bald. James was alive. James was here.

Over a decade’s worth of emotions seemed to hit Thomas all at once and, unsure of whether to laugh or to sob, he made an odd sort of noise somewhere between. As James stumbled forward Thomas lunged, and the two collided in the middle of the field, uncaring who saw or judged. Thomas didn’t doubt that a lot had happened in the years between them, that in some ways both he and James were far different men now, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but the fact that they were together again. Thomas kept moving, wanting to wrap himself around James entirely. Eventually he settled for cradling James’ precious head, his whole world in his hands as their lips met.

*  
James had told him the whole story, beginning to end. He’d cried like a child the entire time and at some points Thomas did, too. When they reached the point of Miranda’s death James broke down in Thomas’ arms while Thomas held him tight, crying silently himself for the dear friend they’d both lost. By the time James had finished, describing that miserable week during his journey from the island to the plantation, during which he’d eventually been made to feel more suicidal than ever before, they had both cried until they could cry no more, James awaiting Thomas’ judgement and Thomas staring into a corner, shaken by the horror’s of his beloved’s life as Captain Flint. Ultimately he had opened his arms again, and tried his best to explain to James that he would not be condemning him or casting him away. All he could do was wish he’d been able to prevent him from knowing so much unkindness and rage, that at no point could he stop loving James and from here that he would always have Thomas’ protection as best as he could offer it. Though he could cry no further James gasped and shook in Thomas’ embrace until eventually collapsing from exhaustion, and Thomas clung tighter, determined that he would kill anyone who tried to pull them from one another. His Odyseuss had returned.

The next morning it had been Thomas’ turn, to describe his life since his abduction and all he’d witnessed to the present day. If it weren’t for how drained he was Thomas felt sure James would have broke something. He told the truth as best he could, wanting to repay James for his truth given yesterday, but at the same time he was partly compelled to try and make things seem less horrific than they were to avoid hurting James’ poor heart any further. In the end he was almost completely transparent, though he didn’t linger on the details, and found himself being held very tight as he stroked the prickles atop James’ head soothingly, whispering things like “It’s alright, I’m here, you’re here with me now” again and again as James wept against him with guilt and fury, repeatedly apologising for what he felt he had let happen.

*  
Leaving the plantation had been difficult but still somewhat easier than anticipated. After six months they had their own home, somewhere far out in the countryside with a garden and no neighbours. It was heaven on earth and Thomas frequently wound up just standing with his eyes closed enjoying the breeze, or kneeling down to feel the grass and dirt between his fingers. Sometimes he was furious, and would break relatively harmless things, or the terror that had plagued him for so long took over and he would curl up in a corner until James could bring him back to himself. But at the end of the day there was always freedom, and James. No forced work. No overseer. No doctor or jailer or strangers who would treat him as a spectacle to be marveled at or horrified by. Just James. His James. Forever.

Thomas felt no ill towards James for his behaviour over the past ten years or so; only sadness that he had been forced to suffer so much, by his own fault and at the hands of others. He did not deserve such misery. Every once in a while he tried imagining what James would have been like as Flint; forceful, commanding, terrifyingly charismatic. According to James being senselessly brutal on occasion was a necessity for the sake of simple public image and at one point he’d done a rather crude drawing of himself; the expression was all wrong and Thomas struggled to believe James’ moustache had really been that curly, but it was easy to imagine him in the tight breeches and huge coats, hair cut but still long enough to tie back. He had yet to voice the thought or truly understand why he liked it so much, but he did sometimes wonder if James would consider growing it to at least that length again.

In the evenings they lay pressed tightly against one another, at peace in the darkness together. Some nights were for finding out the various ways their respective bodies had been forced to change, others for talking, others merely for lying and listening to each other breathe until one or both of them fell asleep. They had just gone to bed one night when Thomas started stroking his hand through James’ growing hair, still short but very much different than when they’d met again. There were streaks of grey among the copper, but Thomas adored them all the same; it was all evidence of the man he’d kept in his mind and his heart for more than ten years truly being in front of him. As James turned to look at him Thomas leant down and kissed his truest love deeply, firmly, holding his face tight to Thomas’ own.

“I’m not complaining,” said James with a smile, still so radiant after all this time, “But what was that for?”  
Thomas responded with a smile of his own and shrugged. “It was just because...we’re alive, I suppose.”  
At that James reached up to pull him close again, kissing his mouth and then around his jaw, hands running over the scars on Thomas’ back that he’d at first been so hesitant to show. With a soft groan Thomas let his right hand start slowly working its way down James’ torso, the left plunging back into the hair of the man he loved so much.


End file.
